


The Ballad of John Watson

by ArthurtheGatekeeper



Category: Enola Holmes (2020), The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Because I wouldn't know how to resolve the Geralt/Sherlock/Jaskier triangle, Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Jaskier is John Watson, M/M, Mixing Canon, POV Sherlock Holmes, PTSD John, Past Character Death, Platonic Relationships, Post The Lady of the Lake, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The games do not become canon, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, crossover sherlock holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27062773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArthurtheGatekeeper/pseuds/ArthurtheGatekeeper
Summary: John Watson was many things. An army doctor, a military man, his flat mate. His best friend.But he'd also been someone before all that. Before the University of London. A talented musician. A poet.He didn't write poetry anymore and Sherlock had no idea what he'd played. It was the mystery of John Watson. Although some days the mystery was more why he stayed.OR: Jaskier world hops after the end of the books and becomes John Watson.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 62
Kudos: 310
Collections: Identity Crisis





	The Ballad of John Watson

“I also play the violin. Is that going to be a problem?”

The man- John Watson- turned away from his quiet inspection of the flat. His spine straight like a military man. Which he clearly was.

He leaned a little heavier on his cane and smiled. Bright and warm and open in a way most Victorian men would never dare show. Looking at him for the first time since he’d opened the door.

Clearly he held a resemblance to someone in the doctors past. But he’d recovered swiftly enough he doubted it would become an issue.

He really didn’t want to lose the flat.

“Not a problem at all.” He assured. “I love music.”

“You know I looked into your new roommate. Steller record really.” Mycroft paused. As if needlessly trying to build suspense. “And such a quiet childhood. Why it’s like he didn’t even exist a decade ago.”

“He was a migrant.” He’d caught John muttering to himself in an obscure dialect of Polish one or twice. With the mess that region was he wasn’t at all surprised Mycroft couldn’t find anything. He’d been trained as a doctor at the University of London, fought in the war, and was an upstanding citizen. That was what mattered. That Mycroft had nothing on him. “What do want Mycroft?”

“Have you seen Enola recently?”

“No.” He hadn’t _seen_ her recently.

The conversation moved on.

He finished the piece and bowed at John’s enthusiastic clapping.

“That was wonderful Sherlock. You’re very good.”

John smiled and he believed him. He knew he was good. But John said it so earnestly that pride welled in his chest.

But John’s finger ticked at the armrest. He wanted to say something more.

“What is it?”

“What is what?” He glanced out the window. As he often did when his life before London came up.

“John.” He didn’t care about whatever it was. But he had him curious now. He couldn’t let that go.

“You.” His eyes shifted between him and his wrist and his bowstring. “Need to relax more. You’re far too tense. I mean-“ He moved his arms into a mockery of the position. “Look at your wrist.” He folded his imaginary bow hand as close to his forearm as possible. “So tense.”

“I do not hold it that way.”

“No.” He chuckled. “But you were tense.” He settled back into the soft plush of the chair, closing his eyes. Relaxing as if in demonstration. “Made the-“ He trilled a section of the piece. “After the key change harder than it needed to be.”

“You play.” He observed. Although John’s hands gave no instrument away. Perhaps he’d sung. He had the voice for it, it sounded like.

“No.” His hand rubbed against the old wound on his leg. “Not anymore.”

He frowned at the motion. Wondered what else the war had taken from him.

“Play it again?” He requested. Blue eyes glittering. A small smile.

“I know other songs.”

“You can play them too. I’m not picky.”

“So that’s the famous John Watson?”

“Famous?” He raised an eyebrow. Today she was dressed as a newspaper boy.

“Well he’s your roommate. And he’s stayed a lot longer than most.”

“He has.”

“So when do I get to meet him?”

“That,” He pointed out as John turned back toward them. “Is entirely up to you.”

“Will you be leaving for the holidays?” He had nowhere to be but if he was going to spend the month alone he preferred to know that now.

“Hm?” He looked up from his darning. Why John knew how to darn clothing he didn’t know. Close enough to suturing perhaps. It was terribly useful. The habit he made of embroidering little flowers into them was less so. “Michael’s wife offered me a seat for Christmas dinner and theirs a few parties but otherwise no. I don’t have any plans.” His hands returned to their meticulous work. “You?”

“Mycroft will likely pop in at some point.” John groaned and he silently agreed. He hoped Enola would come by.

“You know your brother makes me grateful I don’t have siblings.”

He smirked. “He’s fun to annoy at least.”

“Cheers to that.”

“Oh.” John clicked his tongue. “What a shame.”

He looked up at him questioningly.

“They were doing so well keeping the metre. And they just had to include this line.” He pointed to a section in the middle. “I can understand the temptation but if you’re going to break the pattern it should be for a reason. Not just for a pretty line.” He shook his head. “Amateur mistake.”

John liked poetry. He would not have expected that.

“Which other poems in here contain similar mistakes?” He handed him the book. “I suspect he plagiarized someone.” If he could figure out who he stolen from he’d have a suspect to question.

John flipped through it idly. “Yes I think you’re right.” He grinned as he stopped to read one. “Or our poet is far more narcissistic than we gave him credit for.”

He leaned closer. Reading the passage.

“Jade- the color of his eyes. Vetiver wood? You don’t just pull that out of thin air. That’s the cologne he wore. And- now this is a nice touch- _the stutter in his heart_.” He read smoothly. In a voice fit only for softest of poetry. “His medical records showed several cardiac issues including frequent palpitations.”

A lover scorned then. Simple enough.

“Thank you Watson.” He squeezed his shoulder in gratitude. “Then I know exactly where we must go next.”

Enola hung her scarf up as she entered. “He’s cooking.”

“He does so occasionally.”

“Tewskbury enjoys cooking.”

“Who’s Tewskbury?” John poked his head around the corner and smiled. “Also glad you could make it Enola.”

“Viscount Tewskbury, Marquess of Basilwether. He’s my friend.”

“Now _that_ is a name!” If he noted her trousers or lack of hat and gloves he gave little outward sign. “I think the duck is almost done if you’d set the table.”

“You think?”

“Well this isn’t how I’m used to cooking but I’m not about to start an open fire in London. The sides should be fine at very least.”

“You know how to cook duck over an open flame but not a stove.”

He winked. “I had a very interesting youth. Although,” He smiled at Enola. Open and disarming. “Not as interesting as yours. I hope you’ll regale me with a few of your adventures.”

“I’d be glad to Doctor Watson.”

“For you, Miss Holmes, John will work just fine.”

“What’s your home like?” John asked. Draped over both the armrests of his chair. A sure sign he’d had too much to drink.

“You live here.” He pointed out. Enjoying the vodka. John definitely knew his alcohol.

“No like.” He giggled. “Where you were raised.”

He pictured it. How overgrown it had been. Enola.

“Sherlock?”

He blinked. Turned to him. “What about you?”

His head dropped down the armrest. Hair hanging downward. A small white scar the disappeared into his hairline on display.

He hummed. Closed his eyes. “The stars were beautiful there.”

“Stars are the same everywhere.”

“No.” He took the demijohn and sat up enough to take a swig. “They’re really not.”

He thought about the smog over London. How bright they shone over his childhood home.

“No. I suppose they’re not.”

Maybe they’d get a case out in the country soon.

He watched John open his mouth and he knew John was _very_ drunk. Because he opened his mouth and sang.

He took the demijohn from him and tucked it between the cushions. Leaned back into the softness and enjoyed the rare music.

John was a friendly man. With an assortment of friends beyond him. He regularly left the flat to visit them. He rarely brought them home, for which he was very grateful.

Henry stood uncomfortably in their living room as John searched his room for a book he intended to lend the man.

It was his living room. He would not retreat into his bedroom. He would not.

“You’re his roommate?”

He bristled at the inanity of the question. “Yes.” He took in the rumple of his clothing and mess of his hair. “And you are a university colleague.” Because he was clearly not military.

“Yeah. Did he tell you that or did you _deduce_ that?”

He hoped John would find the book soon.

A thought occurred to him.

“Did John play an instrument at university?”

“Huh?” He looked confused. “No I. Don’t think so?”

“Sing then?” John abhorred the church. Although it seemed more on principle of distrusting religion than any particular slight. He wouldn’t have sang for a church choir. But at University perhaps. He had to have been trained.

He guffawed irritatingly. “John? Sing? Bet he sounds like a dying cat.”

“Hm.” He did not. Even several drinks in he stayed lovely and in tune.

“Found it! Sorry for the wait. Let go shall we?” He shepherded Henry out the door. “Enjoy your evening Sherlock!”

He explained his deduction, quickly answering John’s eager questions, as he opened the barn door and slipped inside. Shooing the cattle back for him.

He knew how big cattle were. He’d seen plenty. It was something else to be in a barn full of them.

“Sherlock are you scared of cows?”

“No.” That would be silly. He respected that their kicks could cause severe trauma and did not want to spook them into agitation. That was all.

“Right.” He heard the laughter in John’s voice. “Excuse us Mućka.” He encouraged one of the out of their way. Opened the sliding door to the equipment room for him.

He stepped in. Drew his coat tighter around him. It was far too cold for this. He missed the warmth of the flat back in London.

Best to be quick about this. He searched the room. Methodically cataloging the room for later. He took a step towards the equipment. The cattle prods, pitchforks and flagsticks.

He was pinned to the wall by not inconsiderable strength.

He searched the room desperately for the danger that had escaped his notice but not John’s.

But there was nothing but the cold and mooing cattle outside.

Chest to chest he could feel John’s heart racing. Feel him shaking. Could see the glaze to his blue eyes as his jaw silently worked. “Nie. Nie.” He read in its silent movements. _No. No._

His eyes settle on the cattle prod. The flagsticks.

 _I had literacy beaten into me at boarding school._ John laughed once.

Did he think he was going to use them on him? It seemed unlikely. If only because every inch of John was trying to shield him. Rather than stop him.

“John.” He called. “ _John_.” He knew not to touch. He’d made that mistake once and ended up pinned to the floor with a dislocated shoulder. But he’d learned one trick that usually worked. “Name and rank soldier.” He ordered.

Tears fell onto his coat as John curled around him defensively. Eyes and mind trapped in the wretched past.

Not a war flashback then. Something older, that confirmed.

He could wait it out. He might make it worse trying things blindly.

But John would refuse to talk about this. Even his deductive powers required information.

He remembered a word. Whispered soothingly while in the throes of illness. As John’s hand carded through his sweaty curls.

He braced himself. “Kochanie.” He whispered. “We’re safe.”

The position eased just slightly. The muscles around his eyes twitched. He blinked, knocking one more tear from his eye.

“Kochanie.” His arms dropped to wrap around his torso. “Przepraszam.” He squeezed once.

Dragged him from the room.

“You don’t need to go back in there, right?” John asked. Still shaking.

“No.” He assured. “I got what I needed.”

“Happy birthday Sherlock.” A small wrapped gift dropped onto the side table next to him.

He paused. “Who told you?”

“Maybe I figured it out all on my own!”

He tilted his head. “How’d you contact Enola?”

“It is wild to me that you’d assume I found her instead of the other way round.”

“Hm.” That was a fair point. He picked the gift up. “Violin strings.”

“You’ve been tuning them a lot. And you always forget how often they need replacing.”

He opened it. An expensive and quality brand. John definitely knew his strings.

“You played a string instrument.”

He shook his head with a small smile. Confirming it. “That’s not a part of the gift Sherlock.”

“I know.”

“Tewskbury insisted I bring them.” She said handing over a bouquet. “As a thank you for hosting.”

“Well next time you can just bring Tewskbury. That would be more than enough.” His fingers danced over the tips of each petal with a soft smile as he meandered to the kitchen for a vase. “But make sure you tell him they’re lovely.”

“Do you have a favorite John?” She trailed after him.

“Never met a flower I didn’t like.” He tilted his head. “Well I’ve mixed feelings on Marigolds but I won’t hold that against the species.” He reached up to one of the high shelves. Pulled a vase down. “Verbena, Arenaria, Myrtle, Beggartick. Spent a lot of time collecting those.” He adjusted the flowers in the vase. “But roses are always a classic. Great deal of fond memories with roses.”

“But no favorite?” He handed her the vase. Clearing a space on the table for it.

“Buttercups.”

“Buttercups are poisonous.” She eagerly provided.

“They’re also weeds.” He said like it was a compliment. Took the vase back a set it at the center. “Beautiful tenacious little bastards.” His fingers stroked the lily’s petals gently. “What’s yours Enola?”

John collapsed in his chair. Ragged and exhausted. He rubbed at his leg.

He hadn’t seen much of John these past few weeks. The outbreak of smallpox within the city had kept him busy.

“Sherlock.” He kneaded at his leg more forcefully. “Would you play something?”

He retrieved his violin in answer. “Anything in particular?”

“I’ve a song stuck in my head and I need to hear literally anything else.”

He started on a new piece he’d been practicing. He felt himself slow down over a section of fingering that had been giving him trouble. And if that had been obvious to him then he could only imagine the other corrections John was ready to make.

“Keep going.” Was all he offered instead. His good leg hugged to his chest.

He repeated the section over and over until he could match the tapping of his foot on the rug to the rest of the piece.

Then he played it from the beginning.

“Much better.” John praised into his knee. “But you’ve got a few bum notes in the second verse where you’re not quite making the fingering.”

He played the section he thought John meant slowly in question.

“That’s the ticket.”

He left the book of poetry on the table for John. He didn’t wrap it. It would be silly to wrap it.

He picked it up questioningly as he sipped his tea.

“Another plagiarism case Sherlock?” Flipped through it.

“No.” He turned to the next page in the paper. “Happy birthday John.”

He paused his quiet bustle around the kitchen. “Oh.” He glanced up. Had he chosen a poor book? Poetry wasn’t something he had an opinion on.

John was staring at the book. A finger stroking its cover.

“Thank you Sherlock.” The look on his face- soft and sad- made his chest ache. “This means the world to me.”

“Of course.” He buried his nose in the paper. Maybe Enola had left him a note in the personals today.

“Mister Holmes?” A younger detective stepped into their entryway. “The inspector has requested your assistance at the station.”

John grumbled quietly. “We just sat down.”

“What’s the case?” He asked instead of getting up because he rather agreed.

“Well its- um. Less of a case and more that. Well you see the witness doesn’t speak English? And we were hoping you might be able to.”

“Translate?”

“Or figure it out if she isn’t helpful I suppose.”

“What did she witness?” He wasn’t getting up for a pickpocket.

“A beheading.”

“Well then.” He stood and Watson moved to grab his coat. “That was all you had to say.”

The young woman, mousy hair tucked up in a bun but dressed in well-fitting trousers and boots leaned back on two legs of the chair in the questioning room. Her head turned with such utter contempt and irritation he was almost impressed.

Her eyes found him and the chair slammed to the ground. Confusion and betrayal marred her face instead. “Geralt?” She exhaled.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.” He motioned back to John to introduce him but stopped.

John was just as frozen as she was.

“John?”

"Królewna" He whispered. Unable to look away. “Ciri.”

Only then did she break her focused gaze. Turning to John.

“Jaskier.”

Her handcuffs fell uselessly to the floor. She was in John’s arms. Being lifted into the air.

“Królewna." She laughed in delight into his shoulder as her feet dangled off the ground. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“No one knew where you went! Everyone thought you’d died Jaskier! How did you even get here?”

He glanced at the detectives watching them through the open door. He closed it.

“I see a translator isn’t needed.” He turned back to them. “But if you could answer a few questions that would be helpful.”

She considered him through squinted eyes. “He looks like Geralt.” She said to John.

“It’s the jawline. Can you imagine Geralt with curls?”

“John.” He tried to keep the scolding out his tone. “Put her down before you blow out your leg.”

‘Nag, nag, nag.” He whispered just loud enough to hear but set her down obligingly.

“Your leg?” She stayed right next to him. A hand on his shoulder.

“Well I didn’t have Regis to sow me back together.” He flashed the quick wink and easy smile. “But it got me discharged early and I’ve a very nice cane so all’s well that ends well.” He motioned back to the chairs. “Shall we get through the questions so we can catch up properly over tea?”

“Don’t _threaten_ me with that awful tea you drink bard. I have taste.”

Bard? John refused to meet his eye.

“I’m sure we can find something you like princess.” He eased into the chair painfully slow. They’d need a cab to get home at _very_ least. “I hear you witnessed a beheading. I hope Calanthe hasn’t returned from the grave?”

“Ha. Ha.” She fake laughed.

She answered his questions without ever meeting his eye.

The flat smelled like fresh bread when he returned. He stopped at the door. Listening to them laugh.

“You play the violin now?”

“No! Put that down- it’s Sherlock’s.”

“Really? Wouldn’t have pegged him for a musician.”

“Well add that to the differences then! Sherlock has taste.”

“Are you saying Geralt didn’t have taste?”

“In the decades I knew him he always wore the same outfit. If he had taste it was stale and boring.”

Decades? Childhood friends then? Past tense. Deceased. Likely the man John had mistaken him for that first day.

“Well he liked you.”

The rhythmic chopping of vegetables stuttered briefly. “Sometimes.” He barely heard through the thin walls.

“Okay so you don’t play the violin. Where’s your lute? In your room?”

“I don’t have one.” Her incredulous response worried him. “Mine got left back. There.”

“You didn’t replace it? I mean what do you even do without it!” Her volume crescendoed. 

“I’m a doctor.”

“ _You’re_ a doctor?” She laughed. “You get sick at the sight of blood!”

His fingers tightened on the door handle. John was an excellent doctor. Clearly she hadn’t known him in years.

“Yes.” The chopping was forceful on the cutting board. “But I was sicker still of burying people because I didn’t know what else to do.”

They all stood in the silence of John’s chopping.

“Tell me you still play Jaskier.”

“I still play.” He lied.

He opened the door and walked in.

He hauled John to bed. The low dosage of opioid he’d slipped in his tea pushing him to sleep. He didn’t make a habit of it. Opioids were known to be dangerous.

But John hadn’t been able to stand after dinner. Despite how much he wanted to convince the woman he was fine. He couldn’t manage it. So tonight he’d made an exception.

He threw the blanket over John. The floor creaked as she stood in the doorway.

“Is it always this bad?”

“No. It was just a long day.” He adjusted the blankets needlessly. He was being emotional.

She was quiet at the doorway. If he left she might try to stay with him.

All the unknowns of who John was before University- before England and London- stood in the doorway.

He didn’t need that past. Those unknowns. He understood John just fine. She could keep _Jaskier_. But _John_ was his.

_You’re being emotional._

He stood and walked past her.

She trailed after him. “Do you have any blankets for the couch?” He hated the part of him that unwound that she didn’t plan on sleeping with him. Even if the bed was small for two people.

He handed them to her without a word. She studied him not taking them.

“You really are similar to Geralt.” Her father, he’d gathered over the evening, in character but not blood. “No wonder he latched on to you.”

He dropped the blankets on the side table.

“I’m not trying to take him back Sherlock.” He stopped in the kitchen. “He’s happy here. So if that’s what you’re worried about. You don’t have to be.”

He had a great deal of questions. But the one that came out was simply, “Buttercup?”

“Jaskier.” She agreed. “Does he really not play anymore?”

“No.” Even in the darkness he could watch her heart break. “But when he’s very drunk he sings.” He offered.

His university and war friends had never heard it. But he had. Songs about joy and longing and misery and heartbreak and magic and wonder. Beautiful songs. Songs without words. Songs that even completely pissed John wouldn’t sing the words too.

Those songs had felt like his. His private piece of John no one else got to see.

“What kind of lute did he play?” He’d never seen a lute. Much less heard one play. They were an instrument of antiquity.

“A very nice one.” She unhelpfully answered. “Do you play for him?”

“I play.” He did not always play _for_ John. But John always enjoyed. Except when he played to annoy John of course. “You assumed he died.” _You didn’t look for him. He disappeared and you just accepted he died._ He could hear the accusation in his voice.

She picked up a blanket and spread it over the couch. “He was my father’s best friend. He followed him to the ends of the world and back. And after Geralt died.” She swallowed the waver in her voice. Inhaled. Exhaled. “He left his lute behind. So no. We didn’t look very hard. We knew where he had gone.”

She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. Her breath shuttering in the relative quiet of the flat.

“I’m glad he found a life here.”

“He made a life here.” He corrected.

The door to his room clicked closed behind him.

When the blankets were put away a few days later he finally relaxed.

“I promise I’ll find her lodgings elsewhere next time she pops in.” He apologized in a tone that made it clear he was not sorry about it in the slightest.

“And when will that be?”

“Well if she’s anything like her parents it will be in several months with trouble close behind.” John smirked. “Really I think you’re going to quite enjoy her little visits.”

“Hm.” He answered noncommittally. “You were a bard?”

John scoffed derisively. “Not a bard. _The_ bard.” He puffed his chest dramatically. “I was the best on the Continent.”

“Which is why I have never heard any of your songs.”

“Exactly.” He grinned. He could not place the lie.

“Then tonight,” He picked up the violin. “You’ll play.”

He held it carefully in his lap but made no motion to stand. “It’s really not my instrument Sherlock.”

He stretched out on the couch and waited.

“Just one song.” He hedged. “Something simple.” He bartered. “It’s your fault if it screeches.” He decided.

He stood and ran through the scales several times.

Played a simple piece hesitantly. One he hadn’t heard before. And played it again more confidently.

He kept playing. Song after song. Songs he’d never heard before. Screeching only occasionally. Shifting and swaying and stepping to the music.

It was mesmerizing. John playing.

 _When you hear the angels sing Sherlock_ , a priest once told him, _then you will believe in god._

He did not. Because there was no proof and no way to reliably obtain such proof. But watching John. Listening to John. He could understand why they might.

He leapt from the couch as John’s leg twisted and crumbled under him. Catching him before he smashed to the floor.

“I think.” He grit through the pain. “That’s enough for the night.”

“Yes.” He agreed. Taking the bow and then violin and tucking them in their case. “Thank you for playing.”

“What are you writing now?”

“Poetry.” He smiled. “Want to hear some?”

“No thank you.” He focused on his experiment in case John did.

He laughed. “Some things never change.”

“Well that certainly is a name.” Ciri commented. Smiling more warmly at Enola than he entirely trusted. “Do all Viscounts have ridiculous names or just the one’s I meet?” She asked John.

“You have no right to talk about ridiculous names, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.” Clacking his chopsticks pointedly at her.

“Of Vengerberg. Don’t forget!”

He shuttered. Shook himself. “If I have to do your full title we will be here all week. Eat your dumplings!”

“Where’s Vengerberg?”

“North.” They responded in unhelpful unison. Ciri grinned at John. “I still can’t believe they let you in the military. Do you still write all your messages in verse?”

“I do not.”

“You'd write _everything_ in verse?” Enola questioned. “That's. Quite impressive.”

“ _Speak normally_ was everyone’s favorite request of him.”

“This is what we get for letting that witch raise you.” He groaned.

“Like the witchers were any better.”

“Eat.” He clacked the sticks. “Your.” He moved them closer to her and repeated the motion. “Dumplings.”

She rolled her eyes but ate one. “So. Tell me what you do Enola.”

“Huh. Well wouldn’t you just look at that.” He popped his head out of the bathroom. Comb in hand. “Sherlock! I have grey hair!”

“Yes?” he blearily looked over at him. It was far too early for John to be excited over something as common as grey hair. He had a fair amount himself these days. “You are,” He tried to remember what year John was born. He could not. Cirilla implied it wasn’t correct anyway. “Forty five?”

“Aaaww you think I’m forty five. Love you Sherlock. Forty five. You dear.” He disappeared back into the bathroom.

_Love you Sherlock._

He decided it was best to forget the conversation had happened at all.

“Noooooooooo.” Cirilla banged her head against the chair. “Just stop! You already won!”

“Oh just let me finish the hand. I think I managed to crack five hundred this time.”

Enola looked over at the card covered table. He spared a glance at the mess.

“Two hundred-ninety-nine.” He muttered. “Ninety seven and,” He hummed. “One hundred sixty four.”

“Five hundred and Sixty.” He confirmed for John. Enola moved the rook.

Cirilla groaned.

“You almost cracked two hundred that round! You’re definitely improving!”

“Why did I think playing Gwent with you would be fun?”

“Masochism probably. Look I’ll play the monster deck this time. Anything’s better than losing to Sherlock again in chess.”

“Well I’m not losing.” Enola told him. He’d put them about even right now.

“Then I really don’t want to play against you.”

Which was fair. John really didn’t want to play Enola.

He sniffed the flat. Opened the bathroom door. Watched John fuss.

“Why are you dyeing your hair?”

John jumped. Biting his tongue with a pained yip.

“Sherlock! Don’t! You almost gave me a heart attack you know!”

He waited.

“I. Well.” He looked down at the dye. _Shame_. “Ciri got rather upset last time she visited about the whole,” He waved to the grey streaking his hair. “Silver fox look. And we’re about due for another visit so.” He waggled the solution. “Figure I could give it a try.”

“Are you going to keep dyeing it?” He took the bottle. Inspecting its contents.

“Heavens no. It already seems like too much work.” He glanced back at the mirror. "And I rather like how it looks."

“So you’ll be even greyer the next time she pops in?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. “Hm. Alright go on and use it for whatever experiment you’re dreaming up now.”

He smiled. Left John to his preening. Bottle in hand.

Ms. Hudson caught him at the stairwell. He stepped around her with a quick greeting.

“John’s daughter dropped something off earlier before she ran off. She seemed rather excited about it. Sherlock!” Ms. Hudson called after him. “Let me know what it was! Dreadfully curious!”

John sat still at the table. He closed the door behind him.

An eight course lute rested in his lap.

“Ms. Hudson has decided Cirilla is your daughter.” He commented. Starting water for tea.

“If fate gave a shit about Geralt’s opinion then she was as much mine as his. It didn’t. And she’s not. But I wouldn’t fault her for the confusion. At this point,” The strings sang. “I’m all she has left of them.”

“Hm.” He pulled the tea box from the cabinet.

“She wasn’t wrong. You do resemble him. Sound like him. She accused me of replacing him with you once.” A ‘g’ rang out. “I told her how expensive housing was in London. But then I’ll chase after you down alleyways and I’m not so sure anymore.”

He grabbed two cups for them.

“I didn’t seek you out. I wasn’t trying to remake with you what I’d lost. Sherlock I swear that was never my intent.” He curled into himself. Elbows on the table. Head in his hands.

“Are we friends John?”

“Of course we are Sherlock. You’re my best friend.”

He nodded. Watching the water heat.

“I don’t mind that you had friends before me. A best friend before me. And if,” He swallowed the impulse to stay ‘that man’, “Geralt,” He managed. “Taught you how to tolerate my shortcomings then I owe him a great debt.”

He snorted. “Shortcomings. It might comfort you to know that on your worst days you have never scratched the surface of how intolerable Geralt could be. I mean.” He threw his head back in a dark laugh. “It took more than two decades for him to admit we were friends.”

For a moment he tried to calculate how old that made John. Then he stopped because the answer never made sense.

“You are my friend.” He said just in case he’d forgotten to say it before now.

“Thank you Sherlock.” He looked down at the lute. It did look very nice. Not that he knew what made a lute nice. “Would you like a song while we wait for the water?”

“Yes. That sounds lovely.”

“Once you’re done peeling those just pop them in the water.”

“I know how to make pierogi Jaskier.” Cirilla growled.

“And that’s why you tried to add a cup of salt instead of flour. Which is clearly wrong if only based on the way the ingredients are stored. Did Vesemir really never make you cook?”

“Lambert taught me a surefire way to get out of it.”

“Using salt instead of flour? Mhm. I can see that now. It is a wonder to me how you survive.”

“And it’s a wonder to me you survived at all.”

“Are you two going to argue the whole time?” Enola asked looking up from her book.

“It’s very likely.” He warned.

“It’s almost guaranteed!” John cheerfully promised. “Alright I’ll barter for good behavior. Stop trying to sabotage Christmas dinner and…” He trailed off.

“You’ll play a set?”

“Two songs.”

“Eight.”

“That’s way too many! Three and then Sherlock plays.”

“Don’t draw me into this.”

“Four and I get to pick the songs.”

“You are not allowed to pick any songs I wrote before the Cintrian banquet.”

“What you don’t want to play _You think you’re safe_? How did that one go again?”

He waved the rolling pin threateningly. “I _will_ gag you.”

“The pike with the spike that lurks in your drawers~” He swung at her but she easily avoided it.

“How do you even know that song?” He chased her around the table wielding the wooden utensil.

“Oh Lambert used to chase Geralt around the keep singing it.”

“Why do I suddenly feel like Lambert is the cause of all my problems?”

“Vesemir used to say that exact same thing!”

“Finish the damn potatoes! And mind Ms. Hudson if not the Holmes when your picking will you?”

“Fine. But I don’t think she’d mind. Sounds like she’s had quite the interesting life herself.”

She peeled the last few with a rapid ease. John did not seem surprised by her sudden skill.

“So Obviously Toss a coin is first-” John objected over the sautéing onions. “I said nothing from before the banquet.” But she ignored him.

“Then You think you’re safe because I think at least one of them will blush and that would be hilarious,” John shook his head. “I’m not playing that song.”

“Followed of course by The Lion Cub of Cintra and just to finish it all off let’s end on Her Sweet Kiss. Yennefer _hated_ that one.”

“Oh I’m well aware.” John Shuttered. “I’m not playing any of those.”

“I can still ruin dinner.”

“And I still have currency to buy a replacement meal. Do you?”

“You wouldn’t let me starve.”

“No but I am perfectly alright with letting you go hungry.” The knife started chopping again. “The stars above the path, the eternal fire, The sign of the White Wolf, and if you behave I will sing Her Sweet Kiss. Because annoying Yennefer was one of my life goals and I’m glad to know I succeeded.”

“Is he any good? Or should we plan a last minute escape?” Enola whispered to him.

“He’s very good. But I don’t know those songs.” He leaned closer to her. “So make sure you have a diversion ready.”

“Well she hated you too.”

“No. She didn’t.” John sighed. His voice low enough they had to shift closer to hear. “And I suppose I owe her the same she owed me.”

“What was that?”

“For making sure he wasn’t alone.”

Potatoes mashed. Quiet humming.

They went back to reading.

“Happy Christmas.” Cirilla handed him a package. And then Enola.

“Nothing for me Królewna?” She stuck her tongue out at him. “Rude.”

They were both small daggers.

“I didn’t know what your weapons of choice were but I figured daggers were a safe choice. Everyone needs a good dagger.” John sighed her name. “What! They’re silver!”

“Dear they’re not going to fight werewolves. Steel lasts at least. But if you’re giving Geralt approved gifts then I’m happy to be forgotten.”

It wasn’t a bad knife although he wasn’t sure how often it would be used. It was beautifully made.

“I love it. Thank you Ciri!”

“You are very welcome Enola.” She smiled warmly before hissing at John, “See she likes it.”

John threw a book at her. “Half a Century of Poetry? Jaskier I’m not reading this.”

“You’re the one who kept asking for stories. Geralt approved even. In verse and everything.”

“What?” Her eyes widened. She flipped through it. Eyes filling as she read until there was no way she could read the words. “Jaskier.”

“That’s the third time I’ve had to write that bloody book you know. I’m not writing it a fourth time. So you’d better take care of it.” His arms were suddenly very full with Ciri. “Yes. Thank you for finding my lute.”

She pushed away after a moment and they pretended not to see her wiping away tears. She dumped a few strings on his head.

“Griffin guts." One of their inside jokes. "Geralt said they always had the best sound.”

“They certainly do. Thank you Ciri.” He turned back to them. “You can open yours you know. I’m sure you already know what’s inside.”

They did. They thanked him anyway.

“Alright enough! Performance time!” Ciri shoved the lute into his hands as Enola pushed the violin into his. “Figure out what you’re playing! I’m going to grab Ms. Hudson.” They raced down the stairs.

John shook his head and perched on the chest at the end of the couch.

“Well I know most of your songs. I’m happy to accompany them.”

“Which songs are you playing?” He tried to think about which songs John had sang that might have been the one’s he’d agreed to play. “Is,” He softly played a section John liked to sing after too many drinks. “That one?”

“Yes.” John cocked his head in confusion. “How did you-”

“You’ve sang it before.” For me. Just for me. “When you’re very drunk.”

“Ugh. Well I promise they sound better sober.” He played the melody softly for him while the girls chattered below. “That’s _The Stars Above The Path_.”

“The stars are different here.” John had once said.

“They are.” He agreed wistfully. “But the streetlamps above London are lovely as well.”

He nodded. Checking the strings were in tune.

“Sherlock?” He hummed acknowledgement. Adjusting the A string slightly. “There is nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Three sets of feet climbed the stairs.

“Me neither.” He admitted.

The flat sang in blissful harmony as they played.

He’d missed this. Even though he’d never had it before. Some space in the songs where filled with John’s accompaniment and were better for it.

The piece had been whole when he played it alone.

But it was better together.

They were better together.

It was as simple as that.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I hope you enjoyed! Special thanks to all the folks who reached out to me about Violins and shared with me all their experience! Sorry I didn't include more. It was very interesting to read!
> 
> Also: Woooooo maybe now this crossover will let me be free!!!! Darn you Enola Holmes with your Henry Cavill Holmes making me write this. Also don't think about the parallels between how Sherlock dies and is later brought back because of the fan base and how that also happens with game canon. Don't do it. I've lost evenings to that thought. Clearly I have a ship type and I don't need calling out. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Remember Comments and Kudos make the words go! Keep your stick on the ice yall!


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